


Journey

by TelWoman



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Additional warning: Klaus's foul mouth, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/pseuds/TelWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unable to stand any more of the Major’s abusive treatment, Eroica abandons a mission. Horrified that he may have destroyed his chances with Klaus, Dorian tries to get away from it all. He discovers that all hope is not lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mission

**Author's Note:**

> Long distance sailors sometimes experience hallucinations. These can take the form of hallucinatory visitors appearing on board the boat - as in the case of the account given by Joshua Slocum, the first lone sailor to circumnavigate the globe, in his book 'Sailing Alone Around the World', published 1899. This story started with the idea of who might visit Dorian if he was on a long solo sea voyage. The rest of the story grew up around that idea.

Four days into the mission, tempers were becoming frayed. 

So far, their efforts had been fruitless. Klaus was wound as tight as a violin string; he’d been surviving on cigarettes and coffee and very little sleep, and his patience wore thinner with every dead end they encountered. Clearly, the intelligence they’d received was flawed.

This site was their last chance: a derelict factory on the edge of town, inactive for more than a decade. Initial investigation suggested that this time the intelligence might be right. The disused office contained a very up to date high-tech safe, which had to have been installed long after the factory’s operations shut down.

Agents A and D came down the stairs after sweeping the building for surveillance devices. A approached the Major. “We’ve checked everywhere, sir; the building’s clear. You can send Eroica in.”

“Good. Go and keep watch outside.” Klaus ground out his cigarette, and looked around for the thief. His face darkened when he saw him standing by Agent Z, a casual hand on the young man’s shoulder. Z listened earnestly to whatever Eroica was saying, then burst into hastily suppressed laughter. Eroica smiled smugly.

Klaus stalked over to them. “Fucking fairy, leave that man alone!”

“It’s all right, Major—” faltered Agent Z.

“It’s fucking well not all right! Damn it, Eroica, keep your mind on the fucking job and your hands off good German boys! And you – I’ve told you before: watch your trousers when he’s around!”

Eroica pinned the Major with a white-hot glare. “Major, you’re his commanding officer, not his nanny!”

“Look, pervert— just do as you’re told and get the bloody safe open. The building’s clear. Get yourself up to the office and get to work. And try to produce some results this time.”

Eroica bristled. “I’ll produce results when the results are there to be produced. Don’t blame me if this one’s empty, too. I’m not your bloody whipping boy. You might do well to remember how much you need me on this operation, Major.”

“Need you? Listen, cocksucker, you’re more trouble than you’re worth. I don’t need you.” With a last glare, Klaus strode off to join the rest of his men outside the building, an embarrassed-looking Z trailing after him.

Seething, Eroica glowered at their departing forms. The door clanged shut behind them. 

_Right,_ he thought. _Let’s see how you fare without me, then._

Jones and Bonham were poised beside the stairway leading to the upper storey, ready to go up and begin work on the safe. Eroica walked over briskly to join them. 

“Change of plan, lads,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

“What?” exclaimed Jones. “We haven’t cracked the safe yet.”

“No, we haven’t. Someone else can worry about that now. We’re withdrawing our services. Come on.”

Jones and Bonham looked at each other, incredulous. 

Eroica was already half way to the door. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go.”

Bonham shrugged, and the two followed Eroica past the stairs and out through the back door of the building, heading for the car they’d parked out of sight down a laneway.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
The minutes ticked by. Klaus paced back and forth, chain-smoking, waiting for Eroica to reappear with the contents of the safe. His men were getting restless. Agent A looked at his watch for the tenth time. 

“Sir? He’s taking a long time. Do you think something’s wrong?”

“Wrong? What can go wrong? The building’s empty. The perimeter’s secure. There are no shiny objects to distract the bugger. How long has the lazy faggot been in there?” 

“Fifteen minutes, sir. He estimated it would take him between six and eight. Shall I take some men and go in after him to see what’s happened?”

Klaus swore copiously, in German and English, with a few of his favourite Spanish curses thrown in for good measure.

“Sir?” prompted A.

“Fuck it all! Yes! A, Z—get in there and see what the useless pansy is up to.”

The two agents moved quickly, making their way up the stairs toward the derelict office where they expected that Eroica and his men would be tackling the safe.

Klaus lit a fresh cigarette, and paced.

Less than three minutes later, A and Z were back, looking rattled.

“Where’s bloody Eroica? What’s the hold-up?” bellowed Klaus.

“Eroica’s not there,” panted A. “He’s gone.”

“What!?”

“He’s gone, sir. The safe hasn’t been cracked. Eroica and his men have disappeared.”

Klaus exploded into a volcanic eruption of profanity.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Eroica and his men drove through the night, taking turns at the wheel. Shortly after dawn, they reached an airport where they caught the first available flight to England.

“Welcome home, m’lord,” Peters murmured warmly as Dorian stalked through the front door of Castle Gloria. 

“Thank you, Peters. Please make sure I’m not disturbed.” Without a backward glance Dorian headed up the broad staircase to his rooms.

Jones and Bonham followed the Earl through the front door, laden with the Earl’s luggage as well as their own. 

“What’s up?” asked Peters in a half-whisper, closing the front door and coming over to help with the bags. “We didn’t expect you back for days.” 

“Can’t say exactly,” said Bonham. “‘Is Lordship pulled the plug on the operation. Wouldn’t say why.”

“Obvious, though, isn’t it?” Jones said darkly. “The way the Major talks to him sometimes, it’s a bloody wonder he ever agrees to work for him. I wouldn’t put up with it.”

“The Major gives the rough edge of his tongue to his own men, too,” Bonham reminded him.

“Are you sticking up for him?” Jones asked, amazed.

“No, I’m not, but—”

“He yells at them right enough, but I’ve never heard him speak to any of his men the way he speaks to Lord Gloria. Just plain vicious, he is.”  
.  
.  
.  
.  
As the week wore on, Dorian’s mood lurched wildly from short-tempered to melancholy and back again. His men treated him gingerly, avoiding him when they could. Only James seemed oblivious to the taut atmosphere, behaving just as usual. This provoked a number of screaming matches, with Dorian and James both flinging spiteful complaints and wild accusations at each other. Bonham and Jones were at breaking point, desperate to keep the peace. 

There had been no word from Bonn. James began to complain about non-payment for services, but Bonham and Jones both forbade him to mention it in the Earl’s hearing. James was shockingly insensitive, but the vehemence of their threats got through to him, and much as it pained him to do so he let the matter rest.

By the end of the week, Dorian had taken to spending most of his time isolated in the library. 

Late one night, the week after their return, Bonham was moving about the library quietly, loading a tray with empty brandy glasses and used tea cups. He’d cleared the room the previous evening too, so all these glasses had appeared there in the last twenty four hours. He felt a little alarmed at how much the Earl must be drinking.

“Anything else before you retire, m’lord?” he asked quietly.

“No, Bonham love; but perhaps you could give me a hand with packing tomorrow. I’ll be going on a little trip for a while.”

“That’ll be nice, m’lord,” Bonham said, hoping Dorian wasn’t planning anything rash.

“Tony fforbes-Russell is going to lend me his yacht. I thought I’d take it for a short trip, on my own. I need to unwind, and relax a bit after what happened in Germany.”

Bonham’s eyes fell on the book Dorian had dropped onto the coffee table: Sailing Alone Around the World, by Joshua Slocum. Bonham went stiff with fear. _Surely not! He can’t be! He mustn’t!_

“On yer own, m’lord?” he squeaked. “Where to?”

Dorian looked indignantly at Bonham, one eyebrow elegantly arched.

Bonham quailed. 

“Beg yer pardon, m’lord, but – “

“Bonham, what are you implying? I’ve been sailing since I was fourteen. I can sail solo.”

Bonham’s concern for the Earl’s welfare surged up. “Tell me you’re not plannin’ on sailin’ solo round the world!”

“Around the world?” Dorian echoed, then noticed Bonham’s stricken gaze locked onto the book on the coffee table. “Oh, I see. No, Bonham love, not around the world. I don’t have the time. No, I thought I’d take a short trip down to the Canaries. I might even get down as far as Cape Verde. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“M’lord, are you sure this is a good idea?”

“What do you mean, Bonham?” Dorian never liked to be contradicted, and in his present state of mind, he was less likely than usual to listen to other points of view. 

The need to keep Dorian calm warred with Bonham’s deep-seated desire to protect him. 

“M’lord, I know you’re a good sailor and you can look after yourself, but – well, it’s just that you’ve been through a lot lately and maybe this isn’t the time to take on any more stress. Sailin’ solo isn’t exactly a piece o’ cake, m’lord. Couldn’t you take a couple of us along with you to crew for you? Adam and Seth know their way round yachts.” 

Adam and Seth were also very good looking, and agreeable company. Seth had come to them via a short career in the SAS; he was a good man to have around should any danger arise. 

“Come on, m’lord, they’re good lads. You’d enjoy it – and they could do all the hard work while you ‘ave a well-deserved rest.”

“Thanks, Bonham love – but my mind’s made up. I’m going alone. I can handle Tony’s yacht perfectly well, and some time on my own is just what I need.”

Bonham forced himself to smile. “At least the weather should be good this time o’ year. And yachts come fully equipped these days – you’d be in radio contact all the time.” He was trying to talk himself into believing this would be all right. “If anythin’ did go wrong – not sayin’ it will, but if it did – you’d be able to call for help straight away. Coastguard, other vessels—” 

“Help might come from anywhere, Bonham love,” Dorian responded lightly. “Joshua Slocum got sick while he was crossing the Atlantic and one of Christopher Columbus’s men came on board to sail the boat till he got better.”

“Eh?”

“He wrote about it in his book.” Dorian pointed to Sailing Alone Around the World, lying on the coffee table. “He ate something that didn’t agree with him, and spent several days too sick to sail the boat. A man appeared on board who said he was the pilot of the _Pinta_. He took control of the boat until Slocum was well again.”

“Then ‘e must ‘ave been seein’ things,” said Bonham. “Hallucinations, like.”

“Well, possibly. Long distance sailors do have hallucinations at times – it’s the fatigue, the sleep deprivation. But who knows? Perhaps it really was the pilot of the _Pinta_.”

“I’d doubt it, m’lord.” Bonham’s skin crawled. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but the idea of ghostly sailors appearing in mid-ocean chilled him.

Amused at the other man’s disquiet, Dorian said, “Come on, Bonham, rationality can’t explain everything. If I was in trouble at sea, I’d be glad of a helpful apparition.”

Bonham shivered. “I sincerely ’ope it don’t come to that, m’lord.”


	2. Voyage

With a fair breeze filling the sails and the Iberian coast just visible to port, Dorian lounged on the deck, savouring the motion of the yacht cutting through the water. After a week at sea, his spirits had improved. He felt calmer. He felt in control – at one with his vessel, in harmony with the sea. The events in Germany still troubled him from time to time, but less frequently. 

Experiencing solitude was a rare privilege. Being alone out here on the open sea was letting him heal in a way he couldn’t have managed at home. Dorian lived his life surrounded by other people – but sometimes he felt just plain lonely. He sighed wistfully. How long since he’d had a lover – a partner to share experiences with? He’d been hopelessly in love with Klaus for years. Would he ever be able to share something like this with him? Would he ever be able to share _anything_ with Klaus? 

As soon as he thought about Klaus, the memories resurfaced.

At first, he’d treated Klaus as he usually did, flirting and goading – the man was so adorably sexy when he lost his temper. But as the days ground on without success, Klaus’s explosions of anger began to display a violent desperation that was unnerving. Of course, there was no excuse for Klaus to treat him as he had: in his most venomous outbursts he almost seemed to blame Dorian for their lack of success. It wasn’t his fault if the bloody intelligence had been defective, and the wretched papers weren’t in the safes he’d cracked. Serve Klaus right if he’d walked out. 

He wondered if they’d got the last safe open, and if they’d found what they were looking for. He wondered how Klaus had reacted when he realised Dorian had left. He wondered what sort of reception he might get the next time they met – if there was a next time. 

After the way Klaus had treated him— 

After what he’d done, abandoning the mission— 

_Oh, bollocks,_ Dorian thought, irritated. _That’s put me out of sorts again. Blast Klaus; blast NATO and blast the whole bloody situation._ He stomped down into the cabin to open a bottle of wine. _Perhaps if I start cooking dinner it’ll take my mind off Germany._  
.  
.  
.  
.  
It must have been the shellfish. 

Less than two hours after eating, he’d begun to feel queasy. By midnight, he realised he was in trouble. He had a pounding headache, and nausea swept through him in ever-increasing waves. His skin felt hot and clammy, and his joints ached vaguely. 

At the first hint of sickness, he’d tried valiantly to get rid of the possible cause, leaning over the rail and trying to bring up his dinner – but it was too late. Whatever it was had a firm hold – and he was at sea, out of sight of land now, and the wind was picking up. As a precaution, he hauled down the sail, struggling with the effort. 

The last thing he remembered clearly was going through the contents of the medicine chest looking for something that might help. After that, time passed in disjointed patches of semi-consciousness as the yacht rocked and dipped, pulled by the currents, pushed by the wind.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Dorian lay weak and dehydrated, suspended between sleep and waking. His head still ached. He still felt nauseous but there was nothing left to come up. His whole body was sore from the vomiting and cramps. He had no idea how long he’d been ill: it might have been days. The ceiling spun round slowly as he opened his eyes and tried to breathe deeply.

Strong sunlight shone into the cabin. Shifting his head round painfully, Dorian noticed that the hatch was open. He didn’t remember opening it – but then he’d been so sick, he might have opened it and forgotten about it. 

It was too hard to think. He lay still, wishing the ceiling would stop spinning. At least the sea was calm. 

Peering upward through the opening, he noticed treetops close by, and glimpsed a shining white-grey band of beach sand over the rail as the boat gently rose and fell. When he’d fallen ill, he’d been at sea with no land in sight. Now, the boat was riding at anchor, somewhere sheltered, close to the shore.

He rolled onto his side, and lay panting from the exertion. 

_Think, Dorian, think. Where am I? I must have forgotten nearly everything since I’ve been sick._

Yes, that was it. He must have sighted land, sailed into a sheltered bay, and dropped anchor – but being so sick, he’d forgotten it all.

That was the moment when he heard the sound of someone moving around on deck.

Alarm overrode his headache and nausea. He sat up quietly, craning toward the open companionway, and he saw—

_Klaus!_

Dorian couldn’t believe it. There, on the deck, was Klaus von dem Eberbach, barefoot and shirtless, the breeze stirring softly through his long black hair.

_Oh, Klaus. You’ve come to find me._

Dorian’s heart swelled. Klaus had treated him appallingly, but now, when it counted, he’d come to find him and make sure he was safe. 

He tried to muster the energy to call out to Klaus to let him know he was awake, but he couldn’t quite manage it. Never mind – in a while, Klaus would come to check on him. He lay still, gazing out through the hatchway.

The tall man on the deck picked up a bucket tied to a rope, threw the bucket over the side, and hauled it back onto the deck full of seawater. Then, as Dorian watched, wide-eyed, he shucked off his loose-fitting trousers.

_Klaus, naked!_

Dorian reeled. He held his breath; he didn’t dare to make a sound. Klaus would surely cover himself up if he knew Dorian could see him. As Dorian watched, rapt, he raised the bucket above his head and poured the water over himself. Picking up a cake of soap, he lathered himself thoroughly, then lowered the rope over and pulled another bucketful of water on board. 

Dorian was spellbound. 

_Oh, he’s beautiful! He’s so brown – he must have been sunbathing. His hair’s longer than I remember._

Dorian’s eyes devoured Klaus’s hard-muscled body as he upended the bucket, rinsing off the soap. The water running down over his tanned body caught the sunlight, sheening his skin. 

The headache and dizziness were making Dorian’s vision blur. He settled back onto the pillow, breathing hard, and surrendered once more to unconsciousness.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
He must have slept for hours. When he woke, the colours of sunset stained the sky and the cabin was growing dark. His headache was abating and the nausea had receded to almost nothing, but the terrible heaviness of exhaustion still weighed him down. Thinking was an effort. He couldn’t string his thoughts together. Nothing made sense.

He heard footsteps out on the deck and then a tall figure filled the companionway. 

Dorian smiled weakly. “Major, you came to find me.” His voice emerged as a thick-tongued mumble. 

His rescuer came down the steps into the cabin, carrying a flask full of water, a tin cup, and a small chunk of bread. He poured some water into the cup and held it out to Dorian.

“Here. Drink this. You need water.” 

Gratefully, Dorian took the cup and drank thirstily.

“One sip at a time, now,” the other man warned gently. “Too much at once will make you begin to vomit again. You must mend yourself slowly.”

He sat down on the steps, breaking off morsels of the bread and handing them to Dorian piece by piece. “You must go carefully, not too much all at once. You need to gain your strength without putting any strain on your body.”

“Oh, Major, you do fuss,” Dorian said weakly. “I could eat a horse.”

“Perhaps you think so – but you must be careful. You were very ill.” His companion’s voice was grave and warm. 

Dorian nibbled at the bread, chewing carefully. 

_That voice!_

Those dark, caressing tones – he could listen to that voice for hours. So much better than the harsh bark Klaus used for giving orders in the field, or shouting at his Alphabets in the office – or when he was yelling abuse at Dorian. 

_But—_

He frowned slightly. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something different about Klaus’s voice. His accent didn’t sound the same. 

Dorian was too tired to think. 

_I’m still not functioning properly. I’m getting confused about the simplest things._

Chewing bread, Dorian gazed drowsily at the tall man, letting his eyes linger on the well-shaped, powerful body softened by the shadows. Klaus was usually fanatical about covering his body up – but here he was, relaxed and unconcerned, wearing nothing but the light trousers that clung low on his hips. Seeing him like this was beyond Dorian’s wildest dreams. 

In this light, he couldn’t see the scar from the old bullet wound in Klaus’s left shoulder, but two long parallel scars running diagonally across his ribs stood out starkly, and just above them, a short ugly gash of dark scar tissue like a stab mark. 

_I wonder how he got those,_ Dorian mused; _they look old._

Suddenly realising he was staring, Dorian blushed apprehensively, but the other man seemed not to care. Companionable silence settled on them. Dorian sipped water, and ate small fragments of bread as they were passed to him.

The dark-haired man smiled, then stood up, handing over the rest of the bread. “Eat slowly,” he said gently, “then rest. I will bring you some more water.”

Through a haze of exhaustion, Dorian watched him climb the steps, and within minutes sleep had claimed him again.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Darkness was embracing the boat when Dorian woke again hours later. The companionway was still open, letting in the warm breeze and the pale glow of the moon and stars. He was healing. He felt better each time he woke – but still so weak, his thoughts still hazy. He lay motionless, enjoying the gentle rise and fall of the boat on the water. 

At the sound of Klaus padding down the steps into the cabin, Dorian pushed himself up into a half-sitting position on the pillows. Klaus was just a dark silhouette against the dim light of the sky until he sat on the edge of the bunk. Dorian shifted over to make more room. 

The tall man took one of Dorian’s hands in his own, and laid his other hand on Dorian’s brow to gauge his temperature.

“Your fever is almost gone,” he murmured softly. “You will be well soon. When you are well, I must leave you.”

“Oh, Major – Klaus! No, please – stay with me. We can sail together to the next port. Please – I haven’t even thanked you properly for helping me” 

While he’d been looking after Dorian, Klaus had shown a different side of himself, tolerant and nurturing. Dorian had always believed that the prickly exterior was an armour Klaus wore to hide his real self from the world, and now he felt certain he’d been right. 

With his guard down, Klaus was a different man. 

_In fact—_

In fact, there were so many small things that were different: and now they all came crowding back at once.

_His voice is different. His hair shouldn’t be that long. The scars on his body aren’t the same. Even the calluses on his hands feel different._

The moonlight shining down through the hatchway illuminated the face of a man who was suddenly a stranger – like Klaus, but not like him.

Alarmed, Dorian pulled his hand away. 

“Who are you?” he asked in a small voice. “You’re not Klaus; who are you?”

“Don’t be afraid of me. You needed someone to sail you to safe harbour. I know the sea.”

Dorian felt as if the breath had been pulled from his lungs as recognition struck. 

“My god,” he breathed. “You’re Tyrian.” 

_The Man in Purple,_ the portrait of Klaus’s ancestor, hung in the family gallery at Schloss Eberbach. That portrait showed Tyrian with fine clothes and polished weapons, his countenance a study in arrogance and power. The face of the man here with Dorian in the dim cabin was the same face; the fine clothes exchanged for plain sailor’s garb; his arrogance tempered by the practical demands of caring for a fellow mariner in distress.

Dorian stared with wide eyes. How could he have thought this was Klaus? The resemblance was strong, but he could see so clearly now that this was not the Major. Still, he’d been sick and not thinking straight. Was the man with him really Klaus’s long-dead ancestor? Was he a ghost? An hallucination? He certainly felt real – the strong hands were warm and solid enough. 

Curious, and determined to prove to them both that he was not afraid, Dorian reached out and touched Tyrian, laying his palm flat against the strong sun-browned chest.

“I thought you were Klaus – but you’re not. Klaus is—” 

“I know who Klaus is. I know what he is to you – what you want him to be.” Tyrian’s dark green eyes glittered in the semi-dark. He stood up, moonlight silvering his body. Unfastening his trousers, he let them fall to the floor and climbed onto the bed.

Dorian held his breath. _This isn’t real,_ he told himself. _It’s impossible._

And yet, Tyrian felt real. His body was solid and warm, and his strong hands were gentle on Dorian’s skin.

 _Impossible. It’s not happening._

His impossible lover bent over him and brushed soft lips across his mouth. Tyrian smelled of saltwater and sweat; his breath was warm. Dorian buried his hands in Tyrian’s hair, heavy and thick, coarse from the wind and sea water. 

_This isn’t real. I’m dreaming._

Dorian tilted his face upward. Warm lips met his own. A hot tongue flicked at the edge of his mouth. 

He’d been sick for … how many days? He had no idea. He was filthy; he reeked of sweat, and worse. 

Tyrian seemed unconcerned. “Take this off, you’ll be more comfortable.” He tugged at the grimy t-shirt Dorian was wearing. Dorian cooperated, and let him pull the shirt up over his head and throw it onto the floor. His underpants joined it moments later. 

Bone and muscle, weight and strength, Tyrian felt as real as any lover Dorian had lain with. Tyrian’s mouth burned against his neck. Dorian quivered as the other man’s tongue traced a scorching trail down to his collar bone, his nipples, his belly, lapping at the salty skin.

With the lightest of touches, Dorian stroked long graceful fingers across Tyrian’s back and flank, revelling in the masculine elegance of his long-boned, muscular body.

_This is what Klaus would look like – what Klaus must feel like._

He trembled under Tyrian’s touch, and moaned his pleasure at Tyrian’s caresses. 

_If this could be Klaus—_

The slow swell of the sea lifted the yacht and let it settle, slow and easy, surging and dipping. Dorian felt the motion through the hull, through his skin and bone and muscle. Tyrian rose above him, his fingers inside Dorian, caressing, insistent.

Dorian arched upward into his touch, moaning softly. His low moans became a throaty growl as the solid length of Tyrian’s cock pressed into him. He clutched at Tyrian’s hips, pulling him closer, hungry for sensation, as Tyrian thrust into him deep and slow. The movement of Tyrian’s body was like the movement of the sea: rhythmic, cadenced, relentless. Conscious thought slipped away as Dorian surrendered to his senses and let himself drown.

Afterward, he lay in Tyrian’s embrace, fading in and out of awareness, lulled by the gentle rocking of the boat.

“Mmm, Tyrian,” he murmured sleepily. _Klaus._

The dark haired man held him close. “Sleep now.” His voice was no more than a breath in Dorian’s ear. “Tomorrow you will be well, and I will be gone.”  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Dorian’s eyes opened slowly. He was lying naked on his bunk. Late morning sunlight poured down into the cabin, and the boat rocked lazily. He sat up slowly. The sickness had passed. 

The last few days were nothing but vague impressions – disjointed memories of pain, fear, and helplessness, and then being rescued and cared for. 

_No, that didn’t happen. Hallucinations at sea, like Joshua Slocum. I’ve no idea how I managed it, but I got the boat into this bay just in time._

He clambered up the steps and looked out, surveying the sheltered cove where the yacht was anchored. Tree-covered hills hugged the bay in a tight horse-shoe. Just beyond one point, a jumble of massive rocks formed a natural breakwater that turned the current away from the mouth of the cove.

 _Well done, Dorian,_ he congratulated himself. _Getting round those rocks would’ve been tricky, especially as I wasn’t functioning properly._

First things first. He’d clean himself up and then work out where he was. He went below in search of soap and hot water.

 _Do I need to shave?_

He ran tentative fingers over the light stubble on his jaw, then trailed his fingers down to the side of his neck, remembering—

_No, it didn’t happen._

He reached for the soap.


	3. Harbour

Peters handed the phone across to Bonham. “It’s Major von dem Eberbach,” he mouthed.

Bonham’s expression hardened. It was four days since they’d heard from Lord Gloria, and Bonham was deeply worried. He blamed Major von dem Eberbach for the Earl’s state of mind and for the danger he may be in. He took the receiver from Peters.

“Major,” he said. His tone was less than friendly. “If you’re after Lord Gloria, ‘e’s not here.”

“What do you mean he isn’t there? Is he off stealing something?”

“’E’s not here because ‘e took off on ‘is own after we got back from Germany. ‘E’s on a yacht somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean.”

“What the hell for?”

“Wanted to get away on ‘is own. I ‘aven’t seen ‘im so depressed for a long time. Right now, ‘e could be anywhere – Spain, Portugal, Gibraltar – out in the middle of the bloody ocean for all I know. We ‘aven’t had any radio contact for days and we’ve got no idea what’s ‘appening.” 

Bonham’s tone was surly and uncooperative. Klaus bit back the abusive reply that came too easily to his lips. Eroica could have run into trouble with the weather; his equipment could be damaged. Of course, he could simply have found some good-looking boy to indulge his perverted appetites with and taken a break from his journey. Or – the Russians might have found out he was involved in the mission and tracked him down—

Klaus didn’t follow that thought through to its conclusion. If there was any possibility of that, then Eroica must be found, and brought under NATO protection.

“If he hasn’t deviated from his planned route, where should he be now?”

Bonham noticed the change in Klaus’s tone.

“The plan was to sail down the Iberian coast and then across to the Canaries. ‘Is lordship didn’t ‘ave a firm timetable but ‘e should be somewhere close to Sesimbra – ‘e’d planned to stop in there. We lost radio contact four days ago.”

“Right,” said Klaus. “I need you to meet me at Sesimbra as soon as you can get there. Tomorrow. Bring Jones with you. We need to find Eroica.”

“Why? What’s this about?” Bonham was immediately alert to the possibility of dangers he hadn’t foreseen when Dorian set sail.

“The KGB could have a hand in this. If so, it’s NATO’s concern.”

“Right. We’ll be in Sesimbra tomorrow. Where’ll we find you?”

“I’ll find you.” Klaus rang off.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Klaus was as good as his word. No sooner had Eroica’s men arrived in Sesimbra and checked into a small hotel near the harbour than the Major was banging on their door and issuing orders. Together, they headed down to the quayside to look for the Earl’s yacht. Bonham and Jones knew what they were looking for, so Klaus let them take the lead and followed behind, frowning grimly. 

A mug of tea in hand, Dorian was relaxing on the deck of his yacht, basking in the sun. He wasn’t sure what first drew his attention to the group of three men threading past the lines of fishing boats and pleasure craft some distance away, but he recognised them as soon as he spotted them. Picking up his binoculars, he took a closer look: Jones and Bonham, working their way methodically through the harbour, and the Major following them with a face like thunder. Clearly, they were looking for him, and Dorian wasn’t sure he was going to enjoy being found. The Major looked as if he was ready to resume their last argument exactly where they’d left off. 

Still, there was no point trying to hide. They’d see the yacht soon enough, and he was damned if he was going to let the Major intimidate him.

As the three approached the moorings closest to the breakwater, Dorian stepped off the yacht onto the quayside, long blond hair lifting in the wind. His men looked relieved and pleased to see him, but the Major’s expression hardened. He pushed past Jones and Bonham to confront the Earl, who stood his ground with head held high. 

“Major.” Dorian’s voice was stiff and haughty.

“Eroica.”

“You’ve tracked me down on a private holiday. I see that you’ve brought two of my men with you as well. What did you tell them to induce them to divulge my whereabouts?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dorian saw Bonham nudge Jones, and the two of them melted away around a corner.

“You were out of radio contact for four days. Your men didn’t know where you were—”

“And how do you know this?”

“Because I called Castle Gloria, idiot. At the end of a mission, I have to account for every man who took part in it – since you’d left without a word, I needed to know why. But you’d taken off playing sailor, and when you disappeared we had to assume the possibility you’d been snatched by the KGB.”

A smile tugged at Dorian’s lips. “So you came looking for me?”

“If the KGB was involved in your disappearance, it would be a matter for NATO.”

“But my dear Major, I haven’t disappeared. I’ve been here in Portugal, or just off the coast on my yacht, all the time. Incommunicado for some days, true; but that hardly counts as ‘disappeared’.”

Klaus’s eyes met Dorian’s and held them for a long time. “It’s a game to you, isn’t it?” 

“Major?”

“The security of the free world is at stake, and for you, it’s nothing but a game. You’re hired to work for NATO and what do you do? Flaunt yourself. Flirt with good German boys. Provoke me until I lose my temper so you can laugh at me.” Klaus was working himself into a rage. “You squander your talents! You can break through security designed to keep out the best assaults the modern world can throw at it – and why do you do it? To see if you can. To prove your cleverness. Shallow, self-centred—” 

“Major, you and I are a good team,” Dorian cut in. “We’d be even better if you let yourself believe in how well we work together. Has it ever occurred to you that you don’t need to abuse me all the time?”

Klaus glared at him. “If you had some self-discipline and kept your mind on the job, I wouldn’t need to abuse you at all. And then when you disappeared in the middle of a fucking mission, what was I to think? How much bloody time do you think we wasted trying to find out if the bloody Russians had taken you?”

Dorian’s annoyed expression faded into a crafty smile. “Why, Major – you sound as if you were worried about me.”

“Worried about you? Don’t get your hopes up, pervert. You’re a loose end left over from the last mission, that’s all.” Klaus fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes. Turning away from the breeze, he lit one and drew in a deep lungful of smoke.

Dorian let him smoke in silence, watching the tension in his shoulders. 

At last, Klaus turned back to face him. “Look, thief. You’re good at what you do. I acknowledge that. But I need to trust the men I work with. I need my team to focus on the mission, and the mission only. You have too many agendas.” 

Dorian rolled his eyes. “NATO can trust me.”

“ _I_ need to trust you.”

Dorian blinked. Was Klaus saying that he actually _wanted_ to trust Dorian? That he’d willingly work with him if he _could_ trust him? 

The Major made an irritated noise. “What now, thief? Cat got your tongue?” He crushed his cigarette butt under his boot. “At least you haven’t been captured by the KGB. We won’t have to waste our resources on getting you back.” He stepped closer to the Earl and lowered his voice to a dangerous purr. “If you ever do that again – if you ever disappear from a mission like that – I’ll personally skin you alive.”

Turning on his heel, Klaus strode away down the quayside.

Dorian stared after him, his mouth open. _He expects me to work with him again. It’s not over._

Bonham and Jones reappeared around the corner of the building.

“Everything all right, m’lord?” Bonham asked, concern written all over his face.

Dorian pulled his attention away from Klaus’s departing figure. 

“Yes. Everything’s all right.” He forced a reassuring smile onto his face. “I suppose I should thank you for trying to make sure I was safe.”

“Well, we were worried when we lost radio contact. Then, the Major called and started on about the KGB—” Bonham shrugged helplessly. “What could we do? We ‘ad to try to find out what ‘appened.”

“And we’re glad you’re safe, my lord,” Jones added. “From the KGB _and_ from anything going wrong on the yacht.”

Dorian draped his arms affectionately around their shoulders. “Where are you staying? I could do with a night on dry land. I’ll tell you what: let me use your shower and borrow a bed for the night and I’ll buy you dinner at the best restaurant in Sesimbra.” 

“It’s a deal.” Bonham grinned. “So how has the voyage been so far? No pirates or sea monsters, I suppose?” He winked. “No apparitions at sea?”

A faint smile. _No reason to worry them; it’s over._ “No, Bonham love – just blue water and a fair breeze. Nothing out of the ordinary at all.”

At the other end of the quay, Klaus disappeared around a corner, heading toward the town. Dorian’s smile broadened. _And everything’s going to be all right._


End file.
